Isabel repeats the address, and I picture her at her desk, typing it into Gmail. Several moments pass.
“No. I’ve never gotten an email from that address.”
My stomach feels small and twisted. “Okay. But you do get emails from him lately? From a different address, I mean?”
“Yes. He just sent a mass email last week, an invitation for Will and me to some New Year’s party. You know I don’t want to go, I can’t stand Max—”
“And that was from what email address, Iz?”
“Uhh, let’s see.” I listen to her fingers clicking the keyboard. “It’s [email protected]. That’s what it’s been for years.”
“Got it. Thanks, Iz. Look, please don’t say anything to Will about this, okay?”
She’s quiet for a few moments. “I won’t. But, Skye, you’re scaring me. Lex and I—we’ve been so worried.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve been a terrible friend. I—I can’t get into it now, but I promise I’ll call you later this week. Okay? I have to go now.”
I tell Isabel I love her and hang up the phone.
I think of Max’s face at Will’s birthday party in November, the cold, genuinely bewildered look in his eyes when I mentioned his emails.
I don’t know what you’re talking about, Starling.
The truth is like a gong striking the center of my chest. Max LaPointe didn’t send me those emails. Someone else did.
I am suddenly overcome with a deep, hollow loneliness. I want to tell Andie to come over, but she and Spencer have tickets to a concert at Brooklyn Steel, some trendy rock band she’s been gushing about for months. I could ask Isabel and Lex, but there’s too much backstory to explain. I reach for my phone and text my father.
Okay if I come out to Westport for the night?
He responds right away: I would love that. Stay as long as you like.
I rinse the coffeepot out in the sink and wipe toast crumbs from the kitchen counter. All I’ve eaten today is a piece of sourdough, but my appetite is extinguished. Tidying the apartment gives me some vague sense of control; when everything is clean, I pack a bag and head to Grand Central to make the 6:20 train to Westport.
Outside the sky is the color of cotton, and it’s snowing heavily by the time the train rolls into the Westport station. As I lug my bag down the platform and squint to find my father’s car in the parking lot, I spot Nancy’s white Volvo SUV instead.
“Where’s my dad?” I blurt as she rolls down the window.
“He’s grabbing takeout.” She smiles brightly, a single crease sharpening between her eyebrows. “He said you’d be here for dinner and there’s really no food in the house, so we ordered Chinese. Just for the three of us, the boys are out. They always seem to be out these days.”
I toss my bag in the back and climb into the passenger seat. Nancy has the heat blasting, and I watch fat snowflakes melt into my wool jacket.
“Some snow we’ve been having, huh?” There is effort in Nancy’s voice.
I nod. “Yeah.”
“The schools were closed today because the roads were so bad earlier. I’m sure the city is a mess.”
I can’t think of anything to say, and we ride the rest of the way home in silence.
The house feels festive and cozy inside, a fire roaring in the fireplace. A big Christmas tree fills one corner of the living room, its branches decorated with white string lights and all of our old ornaments, even the gold-painted macaroni ones Nate and I made when we were little. Garlands with burlap ribbon weave through the banister of the staircase, and potted poinsettias are sprinkled throughout the downstairs. My breath catches at the sight of my mother’s porcelain crèche on the front hall table. It hasn’t been displayed at Christmas since she died; I didn’t even know my father had kept it.
“I—did you do all this?” My chest feels full as my eyes meet Nancy’s.
She nods. “I found boxes of these gorgeous ornaments and decorations in the basement. It’s our third Christmas together and your father never mentioned any of this existed!” She lets out a small laugh. “The poinsettias are from Home Depot. On Black Friday you can buy them there for only ninety-nine cents.”
“It looks beautiful,” I say sincerely, because it does. Not tacky, not overdone—simple and elegant and festive, just how my mother used to decorate for Christmas. Nancy also has some of my dad’s recent paintings displayed around the house, as Mom always did. He’s technically retired—he used to say Mom was his muse, and I know he found it hard to continue painting after she died—but his art is still a part of him.
“I love that crèche.” I point to the hallway. “It was my mother’s. But I haven’t seen it in years.”
Nancy holds my gaze for a moment, then blinks. “Do you want some wine?”
“Okay.” I slide onto one of the kitchen island’s stools and watch as Nancy uncorks a bottle. The red liquid glugs through the mouth as she pours.
Nancy passes a glass to me, and I take a large sip. The wine is earthy and smooth down my throat.
“Gamay,” Nancy says. “Similar to Pinot Noir.”
“It’s good.”
Nancy looks toward the crèche and exhales. “I can’t imagine how much you must miss her.”
I stare at the countertop, the wine heating my chest.
“It’s gotten easier with time,” I say finally. “But Christmas is always hard.”
“Always.” Nancy gazes into the bowl of her glass. “My mother passed away when I was twenty-seven. Car crash.”
“I didn’t realize it was a car crash.” I look up at her. “That’s awful. I’m sorry.”
Nancy shakes her head. “Hey. Having her for twenty-seven years beats twelve. You got dealt the harder hand, Skye. But I get what you mean about the Christmas thing. I miss my mom so much this time of year. And around her birthday.”
“Yeah, her birthday, too.” I take another sip of wine, feel it loosen my limbs. “I mean, being that young when my mom died, I feel like I remember her less and less. But then I see things like the crèche and…”
“The memory comes rushing back.” Nancy finishes my sentence. “So strongly it’s overwhelming.”
“Exactly. And then I think about how long it’s been, and how much of my life I’ve lived without her, and I just wish—I just wish more than anything that I could call her, you know? Just to check in and get some advice. Especially during a time like this.”
When I see the tears in Nancy’s eyes, I have to blink back my own.
“That’s what I miss most, too. I’m fifty-one years old, and I’ll never stop missing talking to my mother on the phone.” Nancy reaches for the bottle and refills both of our glasses. “I know it’s not the same. Not even close. But why don’t you try me? Maybe I can give you some advice. Tell me how you’re feeling about everything.”
I hesitate. I’ve never had a real heart-to-heart with Nancy before.
“Only if you feel like it,” she adds quickly. “I mean, no pressure.”